


the long fall, the stars above

by NightsMistress



Category: Star Stealing Prince
Genre: Biting, Demonic Possession, Dreams vs. Reality, Exhaustion, Hallucinations, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mind Manipulation, Possessive Behavior, Strangulation, Time Travel, one sided Xiri/Snowe, post-Ephemeral Prince
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-11 01:07:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15961439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightsMistress/pseuds/NightsMistress
Summary: Snowe sets out on his journey (again) to restore the link between him and his kingdom, remembering nothing of the last time he tried to save the people of Sabine and how they died at his hand or the events afterward. Xiri, on the other hand, remembers everything and is determined to do whatever it takes to win his freedom.





	the long fall, the stars above

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



> My thanks to Morbane for the beta job!

Snowe shaded his eyes from the glare of the setting sun and gazed at the Eastern Tower in disappointment. While it was closer than it had been the previous day, he didn’t think he would make it to the tower tonight. The increase in snowfall meant that walking was becoming increasingly difficult. He had walked this path earlier, alone, before everything had gone wrong, and it had only taken him two days. Now, it had taken him the better half of a week to reach this point. The path to the Sepulcher would be further again. Right now, the distance seemed impossibly far.

“I suppose that’s it for the day,” Snowe said. He had sighted a small clearing just before, but had not set up camp there out of hope of being free of Sabine Forest by nightfall. His hopes had been misplaced, along with his compass, and he had spent an hour wandering around in circles. He would have been in a better position if he had stopped at the clearing the first time around. He consoled himself with the knowledge that at least he knew the lay of the land now, and tomorrow would have to go faster.

He set up his little camp with the ease of practice. He did miss having his guards with him, but his journeys through the kingdom over the years did put him in good stead. It was snowier than he was used to, but not insurmountably so. His fire magic made lighting the sodden wood he found an easy — if smoky — affair. He then dragged a log near the fire for him to sit on, and things were as comfortable as they were going to get.

“Maybe tonight I’ll get some sleep,” he said to the fire. “I’ve never been this tired in my life!”

His dreams of late had been unsettling, something moving in the darkness and watching him with unblinking eyes until he woke in the early hours of the morning, unable to sleep any further. This was the time that he struggled to maintain an positive attitude, because he had nothing to distract him from dwelling on the consequences of his breaking the link. It made sense that his thoughts circled around this idea, because he had ruined the lives of his entire kingdom, but he wished that he didn’t have to be alone to think about it.

He missed Astra. He missed her confidence, especially as he didn’t feel very confident at the moment. His hands ached from the white-knuckle grip that he had on his staff, his head ached from using magic, and his body ached from every time he didn’t move fast enough to avoid being hit by a phantom. These were all things that he had experienced with Astra and the others, but they were all easier to bear in company.

He sighed, stared into the flames, and tried to think of nothing. At this rate, he’d never get to sleep. He had to untangle his thoughts, and the best way he knew to do that was a trick that Richard and Vera had taught him when he was younger and his control over his magic less nuanced. He wasn’t sure that staring into the heart of a fire and emptying his mind of everything but the fire helped him to control his magic, but it helped to steady him when he felt helpless or that things were getting out of control.

The cold seeped into his bones, causing Snowe to shiver convulsively. The fire seemed an inadequate shield against the chill of winter, and he knew that it would become crushingly cold as the days progressed. Richard had stressed urgency on Snowe, but the ice of the wind was incentive enough. He put his hands up in front of the fire to let the radiant heat loosen the tight muscles of his hands and wrists, and wished he had enough focus to make his fire larger. A larger fire would deter phantoms from attacking him while he slept, but a larger fire would also need more wood. Now that Snowe was stationary, the thought of collecting more wood and dealing with phantoms along the way seemed entirely too difficult.

“Right, enough moping,” he told himself sternly. “Focus on the fire.”

He interlaced his fingers and stretched them out and over the fire, loosening his shoulders, before letting his hands rest in his lap. His fingers were not as cold as they had been a few minutes earlier, and that would have to do for the moment. The air was cool and wet in his lungs, and he could see his breath as he exhaled. At first his breathing was quick and shallow, the cold air painful to breath, but as he relaxed his breathing slowed. The flickering flames drew his attention and held it. The warmth of the fire unwound the tension that kept him jumping at every sound, leaving only a bone-deep weariness. He thought dreamily that this time he’d be able to sleep properly. A few minutes more, and he’d lay out his sleeping roll in front of the fire and rest for a big day tomorrow.

He then looked around wildly, because everything had changed. He was no longer in a small clearing with a fire in front of him. Instead, he was on the edge of the roof of Sabine Castle, looking out onto his kingdom. The land below was blanketed with a thick layer of snow, more snow than he had ever seen in his life, and he could not see any signs of life in the town below. There was no light, no sound, only the quiet snow over all. The sight felt deeply lonely, as if he was the last person left in the world.

He knew better. There was a man standing behind him, pressing against his back with sadistic glee. Snowe didn’t know who he was, and had never asked. He didn’t want to know who the man was, or why he were so gleeful at the sight of Snowe being upset. What little he knew about the man was more than enough: shadows, a flash of a deranged smile, and the crackling of a fire on the edge of going out of control.

“This is all your fault,” the man said, sharp teeth grazing his earlobe. “All of it.”

Snowe looked over at his dead kingdom and knew this was true.

“I know,” he confessed miserably. “Richard already told me.”

“Did he now?” the mysterious man asked. Snowe could hear the malicious delight in his voice, and shivered as the man’s finger trailed down from the base of his skull to the nape of his neck. The finger was warm, occupying Snowe’s thoughts such that he almost missed when the man spoke again. “And what did he tell you?”

“The link between me and the kingdom was broken because I almost died.”

The man in shadow laughed. Snowe refused to turn around to look at him. Whatever his expression, Snowe didn’t need to know. He would not give the man the satisfaction of seeing how his laughter got under Snowe’s skin.

“Is _that_ all you know?” the man in shadow mocked. “You don’t know what you did? What you did to me?”

Snowe shook his head in bewilderment.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You will.” It was a dark promise, and Snowe shivered at the threat contained in those simple words. “This time you’re going to remember what you did, what your parents did to me, much faster.” Quieter, a whisper directly into his ear, “I’ll make sure of that.”

“I don’t know what I did,” Snowe protested weakly. The longer he stood looking at his dead kingdom, the more he became convinced that he had done something that could not and should not be forgiven. He just couldn’t remember what he had done to be so certain that he was beyond forgiveness.

“You remember,” the man said, as if answering Snowe’s unspoken question. “You just won’t _let_ yourself remember.”

“I’m sorry,” Snowe managed around sobs. He doubled over, arms folded across his chest as if to contain his misery and guilt.

“Are you?” the man pressed. “Are you _really_?”

“Yes!” Snowe said desperately.

“Why?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Snowe cried.

The man’s finger was a icy knife against the nape of Snowe’s neck, cold enough to pierce.

“You’ll see soon.”

The fire blazed white hot against his back, and Snowe heard someone — _Astra_ — scream his name. She screamed his name again, her voice agonized, his name ending on a sob. He’d never heard Astra sound like that. After that, all he heard was desperate screaming, wordless, over the roar of flame. He staggered, drained and dizzy without knowing why, and turned around to face the fire.

It was a wildfire, fingers of flame clawing into the sky. Astra was at the heart of the storm, screaming incoherently as the fire burned higher and hotter. Snowe tried to reach for the fire with his magic. Part of it peeled away to lick his outstretched hand, lapping at his palm with gentle strokes. Snowe gritted his teeth, whimpering at the violation as the fire licked him with a lascivious pleasure, and took a step into the fire. The fire roared in response, a wall of flame across his path. It was alive and wanting something from him.

The man in shadows laughed at Snowe’s progress and Snowe whirled around on him, fire drying the tears in his eyes before they could fall.

“Make it stop!” he screamed at the man dressed in shadows. “You did this to her, make it stop!”

The laughter continued, deranged and terrible. Snowe could see the glint of sharp teeth, shockingly bright in the darkness.

“You’re doing this! You did _everything_!”

Snowe stared, sickened, knowing that it was true. The fire could only respond to him if it was his magic that brought it into being. He felt drained and dizzy because he was sustaining the flames.

“This isn’t real,” Snowe insisted. “I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming.”

“This time you are,” the man in shadows agreed. “But next time?”

“Then I just need to wake up,” Snowe told himself. He took a breath, the hot air searing his lungs, and forced himself to step further into the flames. The fire knew him, acknowledged him as its creator, and wanted him to burn with it forever. Snowe tried to scream, but the fire was inside him now and burning him out. His body felt like a too-fragile vessel for the wild storm contained within him, flesh cracking and blistering like glass. It wouldn’t end until he broke completely and it spilled out once more. All he could do was endure until that moment happened.

Then he was on the ground, with no memory of how he came to be there. The snow bit at his burns, the cold burning as much as the fire did. He looked up at the castle as it burned and thought it ironic that Sabine Castle burned after everything else froze.

“Can you do that every time, my little prince?” the man in shadows said, smoothing Snowe’s hair. His hand brushed against the burns on Snowe’s face, and Snowe shuddered in pain. “We’ll see, shall we?”

Snowe jerked away, and then awake. He pushed himself up on one elbow, his forearm braced against the ground, and tried to remember where he was. His stomach twisted and he breathed very carefully, hoping the ice-cold air would soothe his nausea.

He was awake, back in the clearing, with no suggestion of another person nearby. The stars were clean and cold overhead, their indifference steadying as Snowe’s breathing slowed.

“That was _terrible_ ,” he said aloud when his stomach settled. “I must be really scared if I’m dreaming stuff like that.” He forced himself to laugh, even though it sounded brittle. He sat up from where he had fallen to better assess the quality of the light from the stars. He thought that it might be enough to guide him the rest of the way. The sooner he was in the company of others, the better.

* * *

 

It wasn’t far to the top of the hill, maybe fifty steps, but it felt like Snowe was walking underwater. The other three didn’t seem to have any problems scaling the hill: Erio went up and over without stopping, Astra turned around and smiled at Snowe without breaking stride, and Hiante kept a steady pace a half-step behind Astra. He could understand why Hiante didn’t struggle, as Hiante didn’t have muscles or lungs that could ache, but Erio and Astra definitely did. He wasn’t sure what was worse out of Astra’s sympathy, Erio’s annoyance, or Hiante saying nothing at all.

Once he reached the crest of the hill, he took a moment to catch his breath. The frigid air seared his lungs, setting him to coughing, and he pressed his hand against his chest afterward to nurse the ache. His chest wasn’t the only thing that ached; everything hurt right down to the bones. It was the kind of irritating, prickling ache that caused every movement to be cumbersome and heavy. The reflected glare from the sun did little to improve his mood, and he squinted against an incipient headache.

Their destination remained as distantly hazy as when they set off that morning, the fourth since they had left the Eastern Tower. The only sign that they had made progress was that the Eastern Tower was now distant and hazy too, and Snowe could not see Sabine Forest at all. This didn’t reassure Snowe. Instead, it reminded him that if he failed, no one would know until the cold snatched their lives away.

“Come on, Prince Snowe,” Hiante urged as he made his way down the slope to the valley below. “We have a long way to go yet.”

“I know,” Snowe said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He shook his head to try and shake off the irritation and unhappiness that clung to him like a wet cloak, and then forced himself to take the first step down the hill. The second step was no easier, nor were any of the steps after that. The constant fall of snow making walking through the drifts exhausting, the icy bite of the wind made it increasingly difficult to think outside of his immediate misery, and he had to remind himself that others might be suffering more than he was. At least Snowe could warm his hands with his magic when he used it to melt the snow or to ward off phantoms; it was difficult to see how the others could use theirs to warm their extremities.

He was looking down at his feet again. When Snowe raised his head to look around him, his neck and shoulders ached in response, suggesting that he had been hunched over for a while. 

Now that he was looking, he noticed the scarecrow facing them despite the wind that should have pushed it in the opposite direction. Astra had commented on how creepy it was that scarecrows were watching them last night, but Snowe hadn’t noticed until now. He shaded his eyes against the sun’s glare overhead and saw that the scarecrow was smiling at them with straw shaped into sharp teeth, its dark scarf caught and waving jauntily in the wind. A chill ran down his spine, and he swallowed against a suddenly dry mouth as he looked away and down at his feet.

“I must be tired,” he muttered to himself.

He forced himself to look at the scarecrow again, refusing to be frightened by it. As he stared at it, he felt as if he had slipped into a dream. He wasn’t cold or wet anymore, he wasn’t tired or annoyed, and the world had narrowed down to just him and the scarecrow on the snowy hill. The scarecrow beckoned Snowe to come closer, and he did. Before he noticed the scarecrow Snowe had felt weighted down, almost suffocated by fatigue, but now walking came easily and fluidly.

“Did you want something?” Snowe asked politely as he came close enough for the scarecrow to touch him. It did, its hand tangling in Snowe’s hair as it pulled him closer to it. This too didn’t worry him overly much. The only thing causing Snowe concern was the itching in his nose from the straw. He sneezed, and even that didn’t hurt.

“It’s been a long time since I got to see you this close,” the scarecrow confessed. He sounded familiar, but Snowe wasn’t sure where he had that voice before. “I just wanted to see you again.”

It took a moment for the scarecrow’s words to penetrate the dreamy haze that gripped Snowe.

“Have we met?” he wondered.

“Oh yes. We know each other _very_ well.” The scarecrow’s fingers tightened their grip on Snowe’s hair as Snowe tried to pull away. The stinging in his scalp jolted him awake, a shock that made it very clear that this was not a dream.

“What?” he managed. He stared into the scarecrow’s face, fear and the scarecrow’s grip holding him in place. The pallid sun cast strange shadows on the uneven stuffing of the scarecrow’s face, contorting its expression as it clung to Snowe.

“Oh my god, Snowe! Are you okay?”

Astra’s concern broke the trance Snowe was in, and he shuddered as his surroundings returned to him with a wet slap. The shock of the cold air was painful. He managed to pull away from the scarecrow this time, revulsion and anger turning his stomach. Now that he’d had a brief respite from everything, he resented the miserable physicality of his existence. It wasn’t just that he resented being on the hill, stumbling towards an unknown destination, but _everything_. He felt trapped in a cage too small, and wanted to burn everything that had trapped him in that cage.

He swallowed and told himself that his feelings were completely irrational. He was not trapped. He had wanted to make everything right, and the people traveling with him weren’t his jailors but instead good people who just wanted to help him. Whatever strange malaise gripped him at the moment, it was not based in reality.

This did little to quell the surge of anger inside him as he turned to face Astra’s pleasant expression. She blinked, visibly taken aback at what she saw in his face.

“That was creepy!” Astra said brightly, nodding at the scarecrow. “Who could have guessed the wind could do that?”

“Do what?” Snowe asked.

“Catch your hair like that?” She looked at him, lips pursing in thought. “I thought I heard you talking to it too. What did it say?”

Snowe stared at her, thinking she was joking. Her blank look suggested she wasn’t.

“Uh … yeah,” Snowe said finally, when the silence stretched on too long. “You can’t hear it?”

“Nope.” Astra shook her head. “None of them have ever talked to me. I’m glad they haven’t! They look pretty weird already.”

“I must have imagined it.” He was short with her, the anger knotting his insides making him want to lash out at her. Only at her too; the emotion that gripped him was not interested in Erio or Hiante. It was only Astra who was responsible for everything, and it was Astra who deserved the full force of his temper. There was a part of him, separate from the rest, that wondered if this was really fair, but that was easy to ignore.

“Probably!” Astra said. “You do look pretty bad.” She smiled sympathetically and reached out to pat his shoulder. “You should really get some good sleep.”

Snowe stepped away and glared at her.

“I’m _trying_ ,” he snapped.

Then the anger burned out and he was left wondering what had just happened. He didn’t hate Astra or blame her for anything; their journey was because of him and his stupid actions. She was helping him. He didn’t know why he had been so angry at her, and it didn’t feel like him at all. He didn’t understand what that meant, and that frightened him.

There were no answers from the others, who were staring at him with deserved anger.

“Don’t talk to Astra like that,” Erio said. “She’s the only one here who puts up with you.”

“I —” Snowe began, only to stop. He wasn’t sure what he could say. He’d been feeling off-kilter for days, but blaming his loss of temper on the influence of something else would be avoiding responsibility for his actions. It didn’t matter why he had done it; he had done it. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Astra said. “We’ll just leave you alone to get out of your mood.”

Astra’s kindness just made Snowe feel more strange and uncomfortable. He stood in the snow looking down at his hands.

“Be more careful with your words, Prince Snowe,” Hiante said as he walked away. The mild rebuke stung almost as much as Astra’s kindness.

“Yeah,” Snowe said to himself, quiet enough that the wind snatched his words away. “I’ll try.”

“I hope you don’t think of them as your friends,” the scarecrow said conversationally. “Even I know that wasn’t your fault.”

The scarecrow hadn’t moved since Astra had spoken. Snowe kept out of arm’s reach anyway, and refused to look directly at it. After what Astra had said, he thought that if he ignored it it might stop talking to him. He was rooted in place, caught by the scarecrow’s pull and unable to escape.

“You haven’t slept in days, and this is the first time someone asks about it?” The scarecrow shook its head. Snowe caught a glimpse of pity before he closed his eyes. If he didn’t see it, it wasn’t real. “You heard Astra, she saw it. They just don’t _care_. You’re a means to an end.”

“That might be true,” Snowe conceded reluctantly. It was an admission that should hurt, but he was too tired and worn to care. After all, if he failed then everyone would die. It just made sense that they would be more concerned that he would be able to establish the link than whether he just had a few bad dreams. He opened his eyes and grimaced as the sunlight stabbed an icepick into his brain. “But even if it is, I don’t care. I don’t want to do this alone.”

The scarecrow made a sad, sympathetic noise and reached out to Snowe. As it reached out to him, Snowe wanted to step into its embrace and draw comfort from it. He froze in place. He didn’t understand why he would want comfort and support from the scarecrow.

“You don’t have to be alone,” the scarecrow promised him. “I’ll help you.”

There was something disquieting about the way the scarecrow offered to help. It offered to help too eagerly, and it had been too familiar with Snowe.

“Who are you?” Snowe asked, and was afraid of the answer. “Why do you want to help me?”

“Don’t you remember me?” the scarecrow asked. Snowe took a step backwards as he eyed the scarecrow warily. His apprehension was justified when the scarecrow added, “You will.”

“Who _are_ you?” It was a question with more meaning now, and Snowe didn’t care that his voice shook. He needed to know, and the scarecrow already knew that he was afraid.

The scarecrow’s answering grin was all twisted straw, and then it started laughing.

Snowe didn’t understand the laughter until he smelled smoke. He stepped backward. The scarecrow exploded into flame just as his foot touched the ground behind him. He stumbled backwards, trying to put as much space between him and the burning scarecrow as he could. As it burned it laughed at him. Snowe didn’t understand how it could have caught alight; the only person in Sabine who could manipulate fire was him. There was no possible explanation for what had just happened and he stared at it in shock.

“Stop setting fire to scarecrows and come on!” Erio yelled from the bottom of the hill, voice sharp and impatient. “We don’t have time for arson, remember?”

Erio’s irritation was a splash of cold water, bringing Snowe back to his senses. He shuddered, suddenly very cold, and breathed the icy air carefully against an upset stomach and unsettled nerves. The scarecrow was only an effigy of straw and flame, devoid of consciousness or malice, and it burned bright against the clean white snow. The tall spire of the Shrine reached into the sky as mistily distant as ever. Whatever had caused his flash of temper, the scarecrow to move, was gone now. It was just the four of them against the weather of Sabine.

“It’s not long to go,” Snowe told himself, and trudged down the hill, one step at a time. “Not long at all, and then it will all be over.”

He looked back and the scarecrow was gone completely, as if it had never been there. He shivered and did not look back again.

* * *

 

Snowe had to remind himself that there was a world outside of the Shrine. The interior was all the same, with room after room of puzzles and phantoms. Earlier, he had tried to help solve one of the puzzles, but his thoughts were too slow and his movements too clumsy. He’d been told to stand in a corner, keep out of trouble, and avoid being hit if a phantom attacked. He hadn’t succeeded at any of these.

His head still ached from where a phantom had managed a lucky hit against him, slamming him against a wall. The impact had shaken him awake, adrenaline jangling down every nerve, but that invigoration had burned out quickly. Now he was left with the burned out husk of his body, brittle and airy all at once, wondering when he would crumble to ash and float away. He also could see things in the shadows, reaching out to him, and he knew that if he stopped they’d pull him into the darkness forever.

He didn’t giggle at the thought, though it was a close thing.

Instead, he pushed himself forward, trailing after the group, and ignored the voice speaking in his ear. It had started after the scarecrow burned, at first speaking just as he was falling asleep or waking up. Now, it spoke all the time, a slow drawl that was naggingly familiar. It kept him awake when he otherwise would have fallen asleep, held him back when he wanted to run after the others, and stilled his tongue when he thought that he should tell them what he was experiencing.

“I’m just trying to help you,” the voice said. “I’m encouraging you to keep moving. I told you, they don’t care about you. I care. That’s why I’m looking out for you. You just need to do me a favor in return; let me deal with Astra.”

“No,” Snowe muttered. His hands hurt, and he unclenched them from tight fists to expose the ragged half-moons his fingernails left in the flesh of his palms. “Stop talking to me.”

“You need me,” the voice crooned. “Aren’t you tired? If you let me do this, you can rest. I’ll bring everyone to safety, and you’ll wake up to a kingdom that remembers you. Why are you making this so hard for yourself?”

“I said, stop talking to me,” Snowe hissed through clenched teeth. “I won’t do what you want.”

“Come on, Snowe!” Astra said, turning back to look at him from some distance ahead. She looked tired, as they all did, but also energized. Adventures suited Astra, lit her up from the inside.

Snowe swallowed against the memory of Astra lit up with a different fire, and forced himself to start walking towards them. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Erio demanded, when Snowe caught up.

Snowe shook his head and let the conversation wash over him. The others weren’t moving, and the voice was momentarily silent. Over the last few hours, his awareness had narrowed to his immediate surroundings, and he looked around at the room they were in at the moment. It was dominated by a large cracked painting on the far wall, one that Snowe recognized immediately. He knew even before he walked over to look at it that it depicted a man with a bright smile, sword on his hip, and a Sabine Castle without snow dusting its battlements. 

“I’ve been here before,” Snowe said. At first, he wasn’t sure if he had said it, or merely dreamed that he had said it. Of late, it had been hard to tell what was real and what was a waking dream. There were things skittering on the edge of his vision such that if he turned and looked at them, they might look back at him. He closed his eyes to them, only to force them open again at Relenia’s tight grip on his upper arm. She looked at him grimly, blood smearing her hair down around her temples, but let him go when he focused on her face.

“When?” Erio demanded.

“I don’t know.” Snowe shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It just means that we don’t have far to go until we’re outside.”

“It matters quite a lot, Prince Snowe,” Hiante said. “Was it when the link was created?”

“No,” Snowe said. He was always cold, but now the cold was particularly present. His arms were a steel bar across his chest, he clung to his sides with a desperate intensity, and his head ached terribly. “I’ve never remembered when that was made.”

He looked at the others, his vision distorted in one eye, and all he could hear was his own heartbeat and the laughter of the man in fire and shadow. His fingers dug into his ribs, their pressure steadying him. He blinked, and his vision returned to normal, both eyes able to see colour and shape. He covered his eye with his hand, momentarily convinced that a scar would be carved into his skin. His eyelid was blemish-free.

“Is everything all right, Prince Snowe?” Hiante asked, startling Snowe from his thoughts.

Snowe nodded jerkily. He tried to smile. From the worried looks of everyone around him, it looked as false as it felt.

“You’re shaking,” Hiante pointed out. “You always shake when things are going to get worse. We shouldn’t ignore such obvious signs.”

“I’m just cold,” Snowe said. “Richard said that would happen. Sabine’s getting colder by the day. It will until I fix what I broke.”

He wasn’t so tired that he couldn’t see the looks exchanged among the rest of the group. He expected the voice to say something, point out that the looks were just to lull him into complacency. The voice said nothing, but he knew it was listening.

“We should take a break,” Astra suggested. “We’ve been walking forever.”

“Yeah,” Erio agreed. “I can scout ahead if you set up somewhere for me to rest afterward.”

“I’m okay,” Snowe insisted. “It really isn’t very far until we’ll be in the Sepulcher.” 

“Are you sure?” Astra asked.

Snowe nodded, his head swimming with the movement. 

“All right,” Astra agreed. “But we’re definitely taking a break when we get there.”

Snowe heard Hiante reply, but couldn’t understand the words. It didn’t matter. Now that he knew that there was an outside world, he wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. He wanted nothing more than to be outside in the sunlight that he knew was not far away. If they kept going he could have both: a brief nap in the sun before he found what he was looking for. He started walking towards where he knew the exit lay, the sounds of the others falling away into meaningless noise. He turned left, then right, and walked straight down a corridor. His footsteps echoed strangely, both loud and muffled simultaneously, and the edges of his vision tunneled incrementally with each step.

There was noise behind him, a conversation, but it didn’t concern him. He knew that a phantom would fall down from the ceiling and try to kill him. He sidestepped the first attack, knowing where it would strike, and then scared it away with his magic. He knew that there would be a crystal to transport them to the Sepulcher, and that it did not matter how he knew this.

He sensed that he was not alone as he traveled to the Sepulcher, his soul separated from his body. There was someone else with him, their soul nestled inside his own like a seed in a fruit. He looked at that soul. It looked back at him, knew him, and promised him that soon they would talk.

Then he looked around him and saw that it was dark, without even the light of a torch for illumination. He had reached the Sepulcher, finally. While he had hoped to have a nap in the comforting light of day, he thought that this night could be comforting too. 

He sensed the others following him outside, but didn’t turn around to face them. He didn’t think he could. It was all he could do to stand in place and take in his surroundings. It was too dark to make out anything other than a sense that he was very high up and despite the height there was no wind.

“Oh, it’s nighttime already!” Astra said in surprise. “I didn’t think we’d been inside that long!”

“This is as good a place to rest as any,” Relenia said. “Snowe, can you light a fire?”

Snowe smelled smoke and looked up at the sky. He saw that he was back at Sabine Castle, looking up into the battlements as a well-established fire licked at the sky. That should have alarmed him, but his exhaustion left little space for alarm. He closed his eyes against the sting of the smoke, and fell.

* * *

 

Snowe landed flat on his back in a snowdrift, the wind knocked out of him. It’d be easier to lie here until the snow covered him completely, filling his lungs with its cool cleanness, rather going towards the castle and breathing the acrid tang of smoke that was already stinging his eyes.

“Oh,” Snowe said as he squinted up at the dull grey sky. “It’s this dream. I hate this dream.”

He couldn’t see any fire on the horizon, but he knew it would come. This dream always ended the same way: Astra screaming while she burned, and Snowe unable to save her. He always awoke after Astra screamed his name.

Snowe sat up, grimacing at how his body ached at the movement. He was exhausted and sore when he was awake, and it seemed unfair that he was also exhausted and sore while he was asleep. Then again, the lines between consciousness and dream had become blurred of late. In a way, it made sense that his pain transmitted into his dreams now.

“Don’t worry, Astra,” he said wearily. “I’ll be there soon.” The idea of the dream Astra wanting to see him seemed ridiculous, so much so that he started laughing. He kept laughing, even though it really wasn’t that funny, until his laughter sounded more like a sob. The fit passed as soon as it came, leaving him feeling hollow and dull. 

“God, I’m tired,” he sighed and pushed himself to his feet. That hurt too, and the thought of pushing on to the castle seemed too much. He knew though that once he started moving, it would become easier to keep moving. If he didn’t make his own way to Astra, the dream would force him there. It was best that he maintain some control over his life, some sense of autonomy. It was this thought that propelled him forward, forcing to put one foot down and then the next in front of it. He looked down as he walked to make sure that his feet didn’t sink too far into snowdrifts.

He knew he was approaching the castle gates by the increasing shallowness of the snow. He didn’t want to up; he knew what he would see. The gate would already be open, only to slam closed behind him, and he would begin his miserable trek through the castle to reach the roof. He looked up anyway, because he always did. 

This time, inexplicably, there was a demon standing by the lowered castle gate. The demon was not much taller than Snowe, with brilliantly red hair and eyes, and the odd grey-white skin and pointed ears of all demons. Snowe rubbed at his eyes with his forearm, sure that he must be imagining it. When he lowered his arm, the demon grinned widely at him. His smile displayed a lot of very sharp teeth, and Snowe swallowed.

“Uh …” Snowe said, unsure what to say. Normally his dreams had a very narrow cast, which did not include this demon. Something about the cant of the demon’s head and the flash of his teeth in the weak was seemed unsettlingly familiar, and Snowe folded his arms around his chest defensively.

“Surely you remember me, my little prince.”

The words hit Snowe like a blow and he flinched. He could feel his breath come quick and fast, and his legs start to shake. He wanted to run away, but there was nowhere to run.

“It’s you,” Snowe breathed.

His demon’s smile widened as he stepped closer to Snowe. Snowe stepped backward only to reach the edge of his dream. His foot stepped on nothing and he started to plunge backward before his demon caught his arm and pulled him upright and forward. Snowe stumbled forward, but managed to catch himself before he fell completely.

“That’s right, Prince Snowe,” he said. “But you can call me Xiri. It is my name, after all.”

Xiri held onto Snowe’s wrist with a grip hard enough to bruise. Snowe grimaced and tried to pull away. The pain steadied him, giving him a focus to resist the fear that threatened to drown him. He could feel his heart going too fast, his breathing too shallow, but knowing that there was a name for what had plagued him lent him a thread of strength.

“You’re real?” Snowe managed.

“Of course. I’m as real than you.” Xiri cocked his head, a gesture disturbing for how much it looked like when Richard would test Snowe on his lessons on statesmanship. “Maybe more so; I remember _everything_ you did, after all.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Snowe admitted. “But if you’re not going to mess with me, I want to know something. Why do you make me kill Astra in my dreams?”

“You need the practice.”

Snowe stepped backward, only to be caught at arm’s length before he fell once more. He took a half step forward, not wanting to close the distance between them but also not wanting to fall. 

Xiri closed the distance instead, long strong fingers holding Snowe’s jaw in place as he leaned in to kiss him. Snowe froze as Xiri’s sharp teeth grazed his lower lip before biting hard enough to draw blood, unable to breathe or even think. He shuddered as Xiri’s other hand gripped at the base of his skull, fingers tangled in his hair and pulling hard enough to sting. It horrified him that now that Xiri was holding him in place and kissing him he seemed to want it. He didn’t want to muster the will to fight him off as Xiri’s tongue licked at the blood welling from his lip in hot, wet strokes. He forced himself through the lassitude and dizziness to try and push Xiri away and when that didn’t work, tried summoning his magic. 

Nothing happened.

Snowe tried again.

Xiri broke the kiss, his mouth stained with Snowe’s blood, and he smiled in triumph.

“It’s not your dream anymore,” he declared. “It’s mine.”

Snowe stared at Xiri and felt sick. He’d been told once, though he didn’t remember where, that the only power Snowe had over his dreams was that they were _his_ dreams. When that control was ceded to his demon — to _Xiri_ — things got very bad for him. He swallowed bile.

“I don’t blame you, you know,” Xiri continued, eyes bright and mad. “I was angry at first about you eating me. I finally got my freedom and you took it from me. I trusted you. But I understand. I liked the people of Sabine too, and I didn’t really want to kill them. This time things will be better. I promise.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Snowe said desperately, uncomprehending. “I didn’t take your freedom, or — or _eat_ you!”

“I’ll just kill Astra and everything will be how it should be.”

“What?” Snowe asked, hoping he had misheard. “You’re _really_ going to kill Astra? Why?! I thought this was just a dream!”

“Because I want to be free,” Xiri said, shaking his head at Snowe. “I want both of us to be free. I’ve had time to think, and I’m sorry for what I had to do to you. You’re just a victim too. You never deserved this, and you’ve died too often already.”

“I’m not dead!” Snowe insisted.

Xiri placed his hand under Snowe’s ribs, where Lorel had injured him, and pressed lightly against the skin. Snowe gasped at the shock of sickening pain, the hot wash of blood flowing down his side, and he put his hand against his ribs. He reached for his side, trying to hold everything in, tasting blood at the back of his throat and certain that he was going to die.

Then the pain was gone, as if it never was, and Xiri was brushing Snowe’s hair away from his eyes.

“Only because I won’t let you die. You’re _mine_.”

Snowe shivered at the pure possessiveness in Xiri’s voice.

“I don’t want this,” he said fervently. “Why would I want you to kill my friends?”

“Just Astra,” Xiri assured him. “I’m going to take Erio home this time.”

Snowe shook his head in disbelief.

“Why would he go with you if you kill his friend? What do you mean ‘this time’?”

“I’ll explain everything to him after Astra is dead.” Xiri said. “His sister wants him back and I can get him there. I’ll just have to lock him into a dream this time until I get him home. I’ve thought about all of this. It will work out this time.” 

“Why won’t you answer my questions?”

“I will. Later. When everything is taken care of. For now, you need to be kept safe, my little prince.” Xiri placed his hand on the centre of Snowe’s chest, fingers outstretched, and pushed Snowe against the stone wall. The rough-hewn blocks scraped against his shoulder blades, and Snowe squirmed to try and break free. He felt like a bug pinned in place, and he gasped for air as Xiri pushed him harder, the pressure spreading from Xiri’s hand across all of Snowe’s chest. The absence of air was agonising. Terror lent him strength enough to prise a finger width of release from Xiri’s spell and he gasped as much air as he could before Xiri’s hands were around his throat.

“Stop struggling, and it will be easier for you.” Xiri sounded apologetic. The intensity of his grip as he squeezed Snowe’s throat closed undermined the apology, and made it self-serving. Snowe kept fighting him, hands pulling weakly at Xiri’s, and tried to summon his magic. “I know you travelled back in time to fix everything I ruined for you. Once Astra’s dead and I’m free, no one in Sabine will suffer. I promise you, you’ll have your kingdom back. Isn’t that what you want? What you deserve?”

Snowe’s heartbeat was loud in his ears, drowning out everything else. His hands fell away from Xiri’s wrists, and he hung limply from Xiri’s hands. 

“There you go,” Xiri said. He let go of Snowe’s throat, and Snowe fell through the stone wall.

He hit the floor hard, too disoriented to do anything but breathe around the terrible pain in his throat and chest. It hurt to breathe. He did it anyway, gulping down air desperately. He felt sick and weak, eyes closed against dizziness. Xiri was smoothing his sweat-sticky hair from his forehead. Snowe recoiled away from Xiri’s hand. The movement made him cough, and he curled up against the pain.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Xiri said. “If you fight me, I will, but it’s not what I want to do. I want you to stay here until I return. When I do, Astra will be dead and we’ll both be free. Isn’t that what you want?”

“No,” Snowe rasped. Speaking was awful, far worse than breathing. He opened his eyes and pushed himself up onto his elbow. It was hard to balance on one elbow, and his arm shook under his weight, but he refused to lie back down. Not while Xiri was standing a foot away from where Snowe had fallen, watching him with that fond smile.

“I’m going to stop you,” Snowe ground out. 

“You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t try,” Xiri agreed. “That determination is what I love most about you.”

“Love?” Snowe echoed incredulously. “You tried to kill me.”

“No. Just stop you,” Xiri corrected. “You fought me, don’t you remember? Now, let me take care of Astra, and then I’ll look after you and your kingdom forever. You won’t have to do a thing.” He turned and walked back through the wall, leaving Snowe dizzy and breathless on the floor of a room with no exit.

* * *

 

Snowe placed the glass he was dusting on the bench, his other hand pressing against the wood surface to balance against a wave of dizziness. For a moment, he had forgotten where he was, or what he was doing. He had been certain that he was in an oubliette, testing the walls that kept him there, one hand trailing along the wall for balance against the dizziness that threatened to overwhelmed him when he pressed against the magical wards. Then, everything came back to him all at once. He wasn’t in a dungeon somewhere, and he certainly wasn’t alone. He was in Brian’s bar in Sabine, dusting the shelves to help out. He put his hand up to his throat, brushing against unmarked skin. The cold and loneliness had been so real. Then he dismissed it as irrelevant. He was in such a good mood that he wasn’t going to let a weird daydream throw him off.

He inspected the glasses and, on being satisfied that they were clean, handed the dusting rag back to Brian.

“Thanks, Prince Snowe,” Brian said. “You’ve really brightened the place up.”

“Not a problem!” Snowe said brightly. “I really like doing it.”

“We’ll let you know when it gets too dusty for us to handle again.”

“I’m always ready to help!” For as long as Snowe could remember, the residents of Sabine would leave their dusting undone for him to do. It always made him happy to see it, because it was a reminder that his kingdom wanted him around in their lives as much as he wanted to be in them. He frowned, briefly reminded of a time when their affection had not been so enduring, but that feeling quickly disappeared under his positive mood.

He went outside, and blinked in momentary surprise at the brisk air. Sabine was always cold, but he never got used to the shock of transitioning from everyone’s comfortably warm homes to being outside. The cold air was pleasant in its own way, as it always made him feel more alive as he breathed it and he liked the mist his breathing created. He reached out a hand to catch a snowflake, and it melted in the palm of his open hand. Another snowflake fell onto his hand and it melted just as quickly.

“There you are,” he heard, startling him from his fascination. He turned around to face Richard, who was looking at him with a wryly fond expression.

“Oh, hi Richard,” Snowe said sheepishly, wiping his wet palm against his cloak. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I’m not surprised,” Richard said. “You’ve been busy lately, since you made the link better than ever.”

Richard’s mention of a re-establishment of a link caused Snowe’s good mood to dim slightly. He didn’t remember doing that. It wasn’t important, because he could see that everything was going well for Sabine. That said, he still wanted to know more about the link, if only to satisfy his curiosity.

“I did? Better how?”

Richard frowned at him, and Snowe felt disquieted. Richard said slowly, with the precision he had used when Snowe lost his memories all the time, “Before, when you were happy everyone was happy. Now, when everyone is happy you’re happy.”

“Huh,” Snowe said. He didn’t know that was possible. His memories of talking with Richard about the link between him and the kingdom were about establishing what was already there, not reversing the link completely.

“You really don’t remember any of this?”

Snowe shook his head. His head started to ache in the way that precluded a bad headache later on.

“It’s just like before,” Richard mused, which was what Snowe himself was thinking. He wasn’t sure if he had thought of that independently, or whether it was that Richard had thought of it and then had caused Snowe to think about it because of the link. Then he wondered how many times Richard had told him this, and how many times he had forgotten. The thought of having forgotten everything again again filled him with existential dread, leaving him alone and very frightened.

“Maybe I should keep a journal again,” he suggested. “I’m not sure why I stopped doing that.”

“It’s not necessary anymore,” Richard assured him, to Snowe’s surprise. “We remember everything you’ve done for you.”

Snowe stared. The last time that Snowe had hadn’t been able to remember anything, Richard had been the one to insist that Snowe keep a journal despite Snowe’s protests that it made him sick to try to update it. To have Richard now tell him that it wasn’t necessary did not fit with Snowe’s understanding of Richard. He started to speak, and then Richard made eye contact with him and smiled. Snowe smiled back. Everyone was happy, everything was as it should be.

Then everything seemed to shift, and Snowe remembered that he had wanted to say something, to protest. The link had overridden his will, and he hadn’t even noticed until afterward.

“Thanks,” he managed. “I’ll remember that.” He swallowed. “I’ve got some stuff to take care of, back at the castle though. I should go do that, huh?”

“Paperwork?” Richard shook his head wryly. “I should have known. You’ve gotten so much better about doing that since the link was remade.”

Snowe nodded jerkily. “Yeah. I’ll see you later!”

He waved and then made his way back to the castle. He wanted to go to the throne room and attend to the paperwork he had left behind. He wanted to go back to the town and see everyone. He wanted to go explore Sabine to give thanks for it being safe. He wanted to do all of these things and and wasn’t sure whether it was his own desires or whether it was the link influencing him. The only thing he had control of at the moment were his steps, and he looked down at his feet to make sure he didn’t stagger into a barn or something similar.

He saw Vera sitting in a chair within the throne room, and hastily looked away as she raised her head to look at him. He wanted to stop, sit on the throne, and take care of his duties. He forced himself to walk on, up the stairs, and to his bedroom. He locked the door behind him and sagged against it.

“I definitely would have kept a journal,” Snowe declared. “I just have to find where I hid it.”

He looked around the room, bittersweet in its familiarity, and started looking in his usual hiding places. He’d gone through a phase of hiding his journal from everyone, more because everyone in books did that than from a fear of anyone reading it, and used to rotate his journal through each space whenever he remembered to do so. All he found this time was dust.

A glimmer from above caught his eye. He didn’t want to look, but forced himself to look up at the ceiling and the stars painted on it. He didn’t remember who had painted them on, and before his parents died he had thought them childish. After, he never envisaged having them painted over. The stars shone with a faint light, even in the daytime, and Snowe wondered why.

“The link, maybe?” he mused aloud. “After all, Richard said that it was flipped around - I feel what everyone else feels, rather than them feeling what I feel. Maybe they really don’t want me looking up here?”

Despite the guilt that pressed down on him as he thought about it, Snowe grabbed a chair and stood on it, reaching up to brush his fingers against the painted stars. The stars were cool to touch, and his hand tingled when he left his fingertip rest on one. The nebulous headache that had nagged at him focused with breathtaking intensity over his right eye, and Snowe panted around the pain and covered it with his other hand. He traced his finger along the stars, knowing instinctively which ones to rest his finger on and which one to elide completely, and the tingling reached down his forearm to his elbow. He’d collected stars before, though he didn’t remember where, and that memory guided him to demarcate the stars with his finger and magic.

Then, the spell was complete, and a leather-bound book rested in his hands as he slipped and sat down heavily on the floor. It was handsomely bound with red-dyed leather, its pages thick and soft, and its edges worn with use. He flipped it open to the first page, and read the inscription on the inside cover in Richard’s handwriting: Happy twentieth birthday! He didn’t feel twenty. He wasn’t sure what that would feel like, but was confident it was not this. He flipped through the pages to the last page, marked with a red silk ribbon.

He read it, the words slipping in and out of focus as he forced himself to read around the headache. Despite the inscription, the last entry read ‘Today was the day Astra died.’, dated with the current date rather than two years into his future. The inscription also wasn’t his handwriting, but instead his father’s: a lazy scrawl that he hadn’t seen in years. Dread made him flip back through previous entries.

Each page in the diary was identical. As he flipped through the diary with increasing panic, searching for something new written in its pages, the smell of cherry liquor wafted from the spine. Snowe put the diary down, swallowing against a wave of nausea. He hadn’t been able to tolerate the smell of cherry liquor since his parents died, as it was too similar to the pain medication his father had made for Snowe’s headache just before he died. His father had spilled some onto his diary after writing his last message, and by the time Richard managed to wake Snowe that night, the liquor had dried into the binding. 

He felt strange and detached, unable to catch his breath around the weight on his chest and the fluttering of his stomach, unable to see properly around the headache that had intensified further to steal his vision. 

“This isn’t mine,” he said, and shivered. The room had been comfortably warm earlier, but now it was bitterly cold. The cold helped clear his thinking, and he was finally able to notice that everything was wrong. He looked around and saw that the shadows of all the furniture in his room fell towards him, rather than against the light cast by the fire.

Fire and shadow, in a kingdom that existed to force Snowe to be happy. Now that he had time to think, the answer to all of this was obvious.

“I’m dreaming,” Snowe said in surprise. “I’m still dreaming. I just — changed it somehow.”

The demon — Xiri — had sounded so confident that Snowe’s dreams belonged to Xiri now, but now Snowe wasn’t so sure. If the dream was truly under Xiri’s control, Snowe shouldn’t have been able to realize that something was wrong. He would have believed the dream Richard when he said that everything was fine. He would have accepted this fantasy of a Sabine that recognized him rather than a kingdom that recoiled from his presence.

He picked himself up off the floor, steadying himself with the frame of the bed, before making his way to the door and opening it. 

The door opened to the battlements of the castle, confirming once and for all that this was a dream. Snowe flinched at the icy wind and stepped out into a building snowstorm. The cold made him cough, painful spasms that tore through his swollen and bruised throat, and he wanted to ease the ache somehow. No matter. It wouldn’t be a problem before long.

Xiri was there, standing a short distance from the edge. His short frame was elongated by the flames and shadows that wreathed him. They turned and whirled in a reflection of the agitation that twisted his face, his ugly expression frighteningly intense when he saw Snowe. He made no move towards Snowe. Snowe walked towards him, chin up, trying not to be afraid. He swallowed as he walked past Xiri and stood in front of him, staring at his kingdom.

“I’m aware of what you’re doing,” Snowe said, and drew some comfort in the steadiness of his voice even as it sounded terrible and raw.

“You need to stop fighting the dream,” Xiri said urgently. “I didn’t know you were this strong, or this determined. But don’t you see? I’m keeping you asleep for _your_ sake. You’re exhausted. You’re not thinking straight. If you were, you’d let me do what I need to do.”

Snowe didn’t bother correcting Xiri about whose fault it was that he was exhausted. He had spent far too long trying to reason with Xiri with facts and logic. It hadn’t worked. 

“It’s just a lie,” Snowe continued. He didn’t turn around. He just kept staring at the lights below, the snow carpeting the ground, and all of it a wonderful, false dream. “All of this is a lie.”

“It’s a promise,” Xiri corrected. “I _will_ make this for you, if you just let me do this one thing. Just one little thing.”

Snowe shook his head.

“I won’t allow you to kill Astra. You and I both know that.”

“You _should_ ,” Xiri insisted. “One person and you get all of this! I will give you everything you have ever wanted, I’ll make your wildest dreams real, if you just let me be free.”

Snowe sighed and turned his back to Sabine twinkling below. He looked at Xiri directly now, through the fire and shadow, and could see that he was sincere. Despite everything that Xiri had done, it seemed that he truly thought that a sweet, soporific dream was what Snowe deserved, where he got everything he wanted. It just cost the life of his only friend.

“You’re right. I do want this.” He smiled and continued, “I want this so much. But you can’t give this to me. Even if you could, I can’t have it if it means killing Astra.”

He took a step backward, teetering on the edge of the crenelations. The wind buffeted his back, making it hard for him to balance.

Xiri’s eyes widened and he reached out a hand to catch at Snowe. Snowe made no attempt to reach for it. Xiri froze in place, understanding what Snowe already knew. Any attempt to pull him back would only cause Snowe to fall.

“What are you doing?” he breathed. “Not this again.”

“You want me safe, don’t you?” Snowe asked. “Then I’ll make you let me wake up.”

Xiri looked terrified as he screamed, “Don’t you dare! Snowe!”

Snowe closed his eyes, took a breath, and stepped backward off the roof.

* * *

 

Snowe opened his eyes and was surprised to learn that he was not dead.

A cloak was under his cheek, protecting him from the rough stone, and his own cloak was draped over him as a shield against the wind. It was a unexpected kindness, one that almost undid him. He didn’t cry, only because he could sense that there was another person nearby, and he had some pride even now. He blinked drowsily, trying to focus his eyes so that he could see who it was, and shifted to find a more comfortable place to rest. His movement caused his cloak to slide off his shoulders and expose him to the cold air, and he hissed in discomfort. It had been cold with the cloak, it was bitter and brutal without it.

“Oh, you’re awake!” Astra said. She leaned over him to drape the cloak over him once more, to Snowe’s heartfelt relief. He burrowed into the folds of the fabric. When he finished wrapping himself into the blanket, Astra was sitting within arm’s reach of him, knees drawn up to her chest to ward off the cold. She studied him, and Snowe squirmed under the force of her concern.

“You really scared us just falling over like that!” Astra said, breaking the tension.

“I did?” Snowe rasped. He swallowed, trying to clear his throat and surprising himself with how easy it was to swallow. He reached up a hand to brush his throat; no swelling or bruises marred his neck. It seemed strange, that a dream that felt so real left no marks on him. His fingers brushed against his lip, and it too was intact.

“Yeah! It’s okay though. You looked like you needed the rest.”

He could agree with the sentiment. He felt wretched, a body-wide bone deep ache competed with a headache that made him feel sick with every movement. He felt both acutely aware of how miserable he felt and also detached from it all, as if he could float away entirely and leave his worn out body behind. That feeling frightened him, because he knew that the only thing standing between Astra and Xiri’s intentions for her was his resolve. He could not give up.

He sat up to stop him drifting off again, wobbling before catching himself. The firelight lit up their immediate surroundings, picking up highlights in Astra’s hair and making her eyes sparkle as she looked up at the stars overhead.

“A minute, and it would all be over,” Xiri suggested, sounding as if he was sitting right next to Snowe. Snowe stole a glance at Astra. She hadn’t reacted to Xiri’s words. Another hallucination then, even if he felt lucid. “She’s not even looking at you. It’d be easy. You don’t even have to do anything. I’ll take care of everything.”

Snowe looked away, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. The dull pain should have steadied him. Instead, it reminded him of Xiri’s sharp teeth as he bit through the skin of Snowe’s lip, and he shuddered. He closed his eyes and tried to convince himself that Xiri wasn’t there.

“How long was I out?” he asked, once he was sure his voice would be steady.

He opened his eyes to see Astra shrug.

“Half an hour or so?” she hazarded. “Not long enough, anyway. You look dreadful.”

“I feel pretty bad,” Snowe confessed. He looked around him some more, now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark. The abandoned supplies suggested that the others had been there, but there was no sign of them now. He wanted them to be close, in case they needed to stop him. “Where’s everyone else?”

“They’re scouting ahead,” Astra said. “We tried waking you up, but you weren’t going anywhere! So I thought I should stay behind.”

Snowe took care to conceal his alarm.

“Better you than Erio,” he said. “I really don’t think he likes me.”

“He’s warming to you,” Astra offered.

Snowe wanted to laugh. He didn’t. Instead, he heard himself ask “We’re really alone?”

It wasn’t him speaking. It wasn’t him in control of his body. He was somewhere else, somewhere small and dark and faraway, watching another intelligence occupy his body, twist his mouth into a smile. Then the moment passed, and he was back in his own body once more. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears and his hands were balled into sweaty fists.

“I can do that any time I want.” Xiri said. “When you get too tired to stop me, I’m going to kill her with the knife in your bag. It won’t be your fault. No one would blame you for giving in.”

Snowe didn’t answer — wouldn’t answer — because to answer would be to acknowledge that Xiri could do exactly what he said he would do.

“Yeah,” Astra said guilelessly, unaware of the danger she was in. She smiled, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s not a problem, is it?”

“Everything’s falling into place,” Xiri assured him. “Just close your eyes and it’ll be over in a moment.”

Snowe stared into the fire and told himself that he did not see Xiri at the heart of the flames. The fire smiled back at him, despite his denials, and Snowe wanted to close his eyes against it. He couldn’t, because closing his eyes might be considered acquiescence. He could reopen them to find Astra dead by his hand. This was not something he could look away from.

“No, it’s not a problem,” Snowe said finally. It wouldn’t be. They would get to the top of the tower, Snowe would re-establish the link between him and the kingdom, and then everything would be _fine_. Everyone would live, and Erio would go home. He wouldn’t eat Xiri. Whatever future Xiri had seen would not come to pass. Snowe would make sure of that. Until then, he would just have to hold out.

Snowe let his head fall back and he stared at the night sky. The stars shone as they always did, clean and cold against a pitch-black sky. Despite everything that had happened, they were a constant. With his finger, he traced above him the constellations he had previously marked on his bedroom ceiling, trying to commit them to memory. Something told him he’d need to know them soon enough. For now though, he would endure, he assured himself as he stared down the fire. He would outlast Xiri. He must.


End file.
